


Taste in Men

by askanc3



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 13:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7318006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/askanc3/pseuds/askanc3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another night, another garage, another fight</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste in Men

We’re in a badly lit parking garage, dark shadows masking grey-tinted cars. Unrecognisable noises echo faintly from other levels. Nothing’s moving out there, bar a frustrated FBI agent and his informant, exchanging blows and information. 

They’re far enough away that I can’t hear them but I know what’s going to happen, what always happens. Krycek talks, Mulder listens. Mulder questions, Krycek evades. Mulder swings, Krycek ducks. Then they get serious and start beating the stuffing out of each other.

Tonight Mulder isn’t content with his usual swinging wildly and shouting abuse. There’s a certain amount of determination in the way he’s backing Krycek against the wall. Krycek’s head hits concrete and rebounds. From the way Mulder moves off sharply, he’s finally pulled his gun; his body language and the blunt snout of the weapon telling Mulder to back the fuck off in no uncertain terms. Mulder does so, reluctantly but not fast enough to suit Krycek who pushes past him roughly and stalks towards the car, ignoring the agent’s hot glare at his back. 

I watch Mulder carefully as Krycek walks away, waiting for sudden moves but he does nothing, turning his back as Krycek yanks the car door open and climbs in.

“Let’s go.” 

Curiosity gets the better of me. “Why d’you let him do that?” 

His eyes flick sideways, glancing at me briefly but he doesn’t bother to reply. Fine. I know my place. Mulder’s heading for the stairwell, he’s no problem so I settle for starting the car, hearing the engine turn over and purr, throwing her into gear and hitting the gas. My eyes constantly check the mirrors for any sign of pursuit as we sedately cruise out of the garage and onto the night streets. 

Krycek licks the dried blood off his bottom lip and adjust the car mirror on his side so he can watch the road behind us, dividing his attention between the reflection and watching me from the corner of his eye. I’ve been watching his back for almost a year now, on and off. It’s practically a lifetime in this business but he’s still waiting for me to doublecross him. 

“Do what?” he asks eventually. His voice is low, disinterested.

“Beat up on you. I’ve seen you work before. You’re letting him do it.” 

He snorts at the not-so-subtle flattery and says nothing for a while; the conversation seems over before it gets interesting. I watch the rear vision, almost hoping for a tail or a cop car to liven things up. The streets are almost empty, surreal in the yellow glow of the lights overhead.

“Did you think maybe that’s the reason he comes?” he asks. “Out of frustration? For the chance to land a couple of punches?”

I shake my head, having spent way too much time thinking about this. “Nah, he needs the information. Otherwise, he’d just go you as soon as you showed.” 

I cast around for something else to say. This is the closest we’ve ever been to meaningful conversation. “Hey, maybe it’s some kind of suppressed homosexual bullshit. You know, beating up on you so he doesn’t have to admit to himself that he’d rather fuck you.”

Glancing over for his reaction, I offer, “You may be his taste in men.”

Krycek curls a lip at my pop-psychology. “So what’s my motivation, then?” I can feel his eyes on me, assessing, measuring. Glancing sideways, I take in the warning on that smooth face, bone-white against the black leather that always enshrouds him. I shrug. Not going there.

He smirks but the amusement never reaches his cold, green eyes as he answers for me. “Maybe I enjoy it.”

He’s sporting a cut lip and a trickle of blood from a cut on his cheekbone. From the stiff way he’s sitting, a rib is probably cracked, maybe more than one. Enjoy it? He’s much stranger than I’d imagined if that’s the case. I shiver lightly, hoping he won’t notice. Should I push it just a little further?

“Do you?”

His head turns slowly, his green eyes flat and cold. “Don’t ask questions.”

Good advice.

* * * 

Tonight, it’s different. 

Mulder is face down on the hood of the car, a lost, bewildered expression on his face. I’ve seen that blank look before, immortalised on hundreds of surveillance tapes. Mention his abducted sister: you get the look. Lost Scully to aliens again: the look. Ditto for previous girlfriends, his crazy family and probably belly-up goldfish too. He ain’t the most expressive guy on this earth.

It’s like life is a mystery to him, constantly surprising him. How the hell did he end up here, his dick getting hotly intimate with the grille of nondescript black sedan while Krycek fucks him relentlessly from the back? He must be the only one who didn’t see it coming.

Was it a surprise when Krycek finally stopped letting him beat the crap out of him? Did he really think a guy who kills professionally, who’s damn good at what he does, is going to let some second-rate Fed kick the crap out of him as a thank you? You see, that’s the ironic part. Krycek’s been delivering information on the quiet to Mulder; even his partner Scully isn’t aware. Yet each time Mulder sees Krycek’s face, he loses it. 

Why not let someone else deliver it? Does Mulder’s well-known hatred of Krycek cloud his judgement or does he really use what he’s told? I’ve wondered but asking questions like that sure ain’t healthy in current political climate. So, once a month on average, Krycek meets Mulder in some lonely part of town. I mind the car and watch for interruptions, surveillance and muggers. Krycek passes the info, Mulder asks questions which are never answered, takes a frustrated swing at him. They trade a few punches, Mulder hurls abuse and ten minutes later they stagger back to their cars. That’s it. Over.

Now, I’ve seen Krycek on a hit. The target’s dead before he or she knows it. It’s clean, professional and thorough: a shot to the chest, one to the head to be certain, it’s over and he’s walking, calmly reholstering his gun. Emotionless. But each time he meets Mulder – it’s messy. He could handle him easily despite the prosthesis but he chooses not to. 

So here we are in a yet another nondescript parking garage in the early hours of the morning while Krycek helps Mulder channel some of that aggression usefully. Both hands rest on the agent’s back; there’s no sign of the gun that manoeuvred Mulder into his current situation or the knife that laid his flesh bare to his attacker. I can’t help but have a front row seat to Mulder’s rape and humiliation. Five minutes ago he thought he was in control of his life; now he can’t even turn his head.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The skin under his hand is warm, supple and real. All of the things that his left arm is not. He pushes Mulder’s jacket and shirt further up his long, lean back with his fingertips, enjoying the smooth flesh under the base of his hand, tracing the line of his spine. He ignores the shudder of the handcuffed man beneath him and rests the artificial arm on his back too. Mechanically Krycek thrusts, his cock moving in and out of Mulder’s ass more easily now that the agent has ceased struggling, until the tightness, heat and friction combine to make him come. He gasps once, panting for breath. Mulder is completely silent and motionless under him as he pulls out and tucks his cock back in through the fly of his jeans. 

The rookie in the car is silent, staring. Krycek wonders if he was ever that green, that eager to please but doubts it. What does the kid think of his glib theory now he sees it in motion, brutal, hardy and bloody? Does he blame himself? Does Mulder blame himself?

It’s an interesting experiment. Mulder needs the information he’s getting, has come to depend on it, and Krycek is the only true source that he has left. Will he be able to get past this, to sublimate his pain in his quest for the truth as he’s done so many times before? Will this break his resolve to find the truth at all costs or will it make him stronger, more determined? Perhaps at their next meeting, Krycek will find himself on the business end of a gun instead of calling the shots. 

This closeness to another human being is something he hasn’t experienced in a long, long time. The intimacy of another’s breath, flesh and blood has always made him aware of his own solitude, the void inside that longs to be filled with hope, love and laughter. But there is only pain and loneliness ahead for him, for them, death for many and slavery for the rest. 

He gives no hostages to the future.

Krycek picks up the overcoat and throws it at Mulder who catches it reflexively. His eyes never leave Krycek’s face; he says nothing. No reproach, no outrage, no request for a second date. He pulls the coat around himself, gathers the remains of his slashed suit trousers to cover his naked flesh from Krycek’s gaze.

“Otago Research Laboratories. Dr Paul Reiser. Look at his research and his flight plan for the past five years.” Krycek’s gun is in his fist again, level with Mulder’s gut as he passes the information for which Mulder has come here. 

Mulder says nothing.

“Otago. Reiser.” He hesitates. “Mulder?” Takes a step forward, hand reaching out. “Are you-“

Mulder shies away from his touch. “I heard you.” He stares at Krycek, hard. “And I’ll remember.”

Krycek backs away from him, suddenly uncertain. He circles back to the car and gets in the passenger side slamming the door behind him, never for a moment taking his eyes from Mulder moment as he stands by the hood.

The kid gapes at him, eyes wide and black. “Drive,” he orders, still watching Mulder. Nothing happens. 

He lifts the gun still clenched in his hand and places the muzzle a few inches from the driver’s head. “Back up, and get us out of here. Now!”

****

The safety isn’t on. He’s pointing a gun at me, raped Mulder and now he wants me to drive like nothing has happened. 

So I drive. He’s in charge, courtesy of the lethal black shape he can’t let go. He leans back into the leather seat, still edgy, but trying not to let me know. The weapon rests on his leg. It’s not pointed at me now but it could be. It could be very easily. What happens now?

The drive back lasts forever.


End file.
